Tutankhamun Uncovered (39 page)

Almost immediately his servant reappeared holding a fresh glass of gin. Abdel’s face was a picture of anxiety. When among Arabs, his master had not been prone to irritability with the general public, yes, but not with his own men. Abdel, fearful of worsening matters was at a loss how to react.

“I... I am sorry, sir. I cannot find him anywhere.”

“Nonsense, man!” retorted Carter, almost snatching the glass from Abdel’s hand. “I’ll get him myself.”

He got up and purposefully strode into the other room. Abdel followed him, staying close behind, trying to see over his master’s shoulder as Carter looked under and behind the furniture.

It’s a fact, thought Carter. He’s not in this room. He turned to Abdel. “Where could he have got to?”

Abdel made a pathetic gesture with his hands and face that transcended all language barriers.

“While you have been away, sir, he has become very good at this. I have been having much trouble... much trouble indeed.”

Carter didn’t like to be beaten, least of all by a poxy mutt like Gaggia. The fact was, however, that the dog had disappeared into a room with no exit, had not been seen to come back out, and was nowhere to be found within.

“Damned peculiar,” offered Carter after a moments’ reflection. “Damned clever.”

But he quickly accepted defeat. There were more palatable things to do after all. He resigned himself to his chair and his gin and tonic.

The following morning Carter awoke greatly refreshed in body and in mind. He finally felt he was back in harness again. As he sat at breakfast, he dwelt on his plans for the upcoming season’s work in The Valley.

‘But first,’ he thought as he bit into a burnt piece of toast, ‘a strike for England.’

“Abdel,” he called, “get my donkey and make sure there’s a ferry at the riverside. I must meet with His Majesty’s armed forces this day.”

As he got up to leave, the mangy dog emerged from the room into which the previous night he had so mysteriously disappeared. Carter never did work out how the animal had managed to conceal itself. But conceal itself it did and, each time the paraffin can appeared, on several occasions thereafter.

“Sergeant Adamson,” greeted Carter as he marched up to the main door of the barracks.

“Sah!” Adamson stamped to attention. “H’I ’aven’t seen you fer a while, sir. Wot brings you to th’ UCO t’day?”

“The King’s business, Sarn’t Adamson.” Carter winked at him. “The King’s business.”

“H’I see, sir. Mum’s the word, eh? Major Dorking is down the corridor h’in ’is usual office, sir.” Adamson gestured to Carter to follow.

“Thanks, sergeant.” Carter strode on down to Dorking’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come! Carter! Good to see you, old chap. Been on holiday, eh? Any chuffy? Ha, ha, ha!” Dorking noticed the serious expression on Carter’s face and his tasteless chortling quickly faded. “Sorry, old chap. You look like a man with a mission. What’s up?”

It was important that Carter pitched his story just right. He could not achieve what he planned without the help of the military. The story had to be compelling. During his boat trip over, he had carefully thought through his approach something with instant appeal to their quest for recognition, even glory.

“Sir,” he began. “I need the UCO’s help. I know the war hasn’t touched us here yet, sir I hope it never will but there is a bad side to that, is there not?”

“Mmm? Y... yes. Oh, yes, of course. Bad side.” The major didn’t have a clue what Carter was talking about.

“Yes. As you say, sir, a bad side. No publicity. No public recognition. Not on the map and all that.”

“Wait a minute, old man,” reacted the major. “This is the UCO, y’know. Undercover and all that. Publicity is not a word in our vocabulary.”

“Understood, sir. Understood. But hear me out on my proposal, sir. An undercover operation, sir, resulting in negative publicity for the Germans!”

With this statement he got the major’s attention. Dorking listened intently as Carter related his plan. As the story unfolded, the major’s eyes brightened and, as Carter concluded, he burst into unrestrained chuckles.

“Capital! Capital! Just what the doctor ordered. Been too damn boring around here for too damn long. Give the men some practice. Oil the gimbals, so to speak.”

Carter couldn’t fathom what he meant with his last sentence but didn’t much care, either. As long as Carter got what he wanted, the major could oil all the gimbals he cared to.

“We’ll lay the plans tomorrow morning. Do the deed tomorrow night. No moon. Excellent timing. Speed is of the essence. Element of surprise and all that. The Hun won’t have the time to find out, let alone prepare a defence.”

Carter hadn’t expected such urgent acceptance, but the major was decided. He hadn’t faced anything so exciting for months. The rest of his paperwork could wait.

“Sar’nt Adamson!” he called loudly.

The door opened quickly and the sergeant saluted, snapping himself to attention. “Sah!”

“Fetch Horsell at once. Tell him to pick out four of his best men.”

The sergeant was almost out of the door when the major called after him. “Oh... and make sure at least one of them knows how to handle explosives!”

“Sah! H’at once, sah.”

“I’ll be off, then, sir,” said Carter.

The major turned to him quickly.

“Oh, no you won’t, Mr Carter. Not so fast. This is a UCO mission. Everything we do is, by definition, top secret. Need t’ know basis only. Just the eight of us. No one else. You’re in the loop. Like it or not we do not lose sight of one another until the entire operation is successfully completed.”

“But, sir, I have work in The Valley tomorrow morning. I have men coming.”

“Should have thought of that before you brought this idea of yours to me. Important business is the King’s business. Don’t you ever forget it.” He grinned with self-satisfaction.

“You sleep here tonight. The sar’nt will find you a cot.”

There were many things Carter disliked. One of the most distasteful was having to use a communal shaving brush. It seemed an unnecessary insult after an uncomfortable night on a portable canvas bed. The blade wasn’t all that sharp either. Getting back into his previous day’s clothes was not unusual for him, however. It was an acceptable prerequisite to fieldwork. So he hardly gave that a second thought. But using someone else’s comb for his hair, and the same to preen his moustache, that was most disagreeable.

It was breakfast time in the mess room. A severely disenchanted Carter took his appointed place at the table that had been set aside especially for the undercover team in a far corner of the room.

“Bwight and early! That’s what we like to see in this King’s army, Mr Carter.” The chinless Lieutenant Horsell greeted Carter with a wave of his hand.

Carter reluctantly sat down beside him. Horsell leaned over. “Looking faward to heawing your plan, Mr Carter. Sounds like a weal cwacker. One in the eye for the Hun, eh?”

“As you say, sir. One in the eye.” Carter was short but cordial.

The breakfast was less than palatable. Undercooked eggs swimming in fat, greasy bacon, burnt toast.

If only Abdel was here, thought Carter.

When they had finished their meal the major called them all into a nearby room. They sat down on steel chairs in a circle. The major stepped into the centre and held stage.

“Right, men,” he began. “Kept you in the dark to this point to minimise risk. ‘An idle word can cost lives,’ and all that. Now it’s time to give it to you straight. Mr Carter here, one of our civilian plainclothes operatives, has come up with a plan to give the Hun a poke in the eye and provide this backwater in the desert some notoriety in the tabloid press back home. There could be a decoration or two in this for some of you. By the looks of you, you could do with a bit of decoration!”

From the troops came clear murmurings of mixed feelings. Decoration was usually connected with danger.

“The good news is the Germans aren’t expecting us, so surprise is on our side. Bad news is we’re not sure if the place is guarded. However, if it is, it will be guarded by Arabs. So it’ll be ineffective. I don’t want any killing. Sensitive immobilisation is all that is required. We will have to black up. Which of you is the explosives expert?”

“Me, sir.” A diminutive subaltern with a piping voice drew himself up to sitting attention. “Trained at Sandhurst, sir. Bridge demolition mostly. Know exactly where to put it on a bridge, sir.”

The major was startled by the boy’s high voice.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked.

“Watson, sir.”

“How old are you, boy?”

“Eighteen, sir,” came the shrill reply.

“Not dropped yet? Or blow your gonads off in the lab, did you?”

All those around the boy burst into laughter.

The lad lowered his eyes.

“Well... Whatever... Balls or no balls it’s you who’s going to have to do it. But it ain’t no bridge.” The major paused as if for effect. “It’s a building. Constructed by the Germans without the permission of the Egyptians, purportedly as a base for their archaeological expeditions, but actually, no doubt, as an HQ for subversive ops.”

To emphasise the gravity of this last statement, he glared steadily around the circle of the assembled group. Carter was bubbling with amusement. It was all he could do to maintain a serious expression.

“Mr Carter here will explain.” The major beckoned to Carter to enter the circle.

Carter was startled. He hadn’t expected to have to say anything. The levity he was feeling would make it all the more difficult for him to deliver any speech that held a sense of gravity anything like that of the major. He tried to pull himself together.

“This building is situated on the other side of the river near the Ramesseum. It is quite obvious. It is red. Blow it up. Wipe it from the face of the earth. Simple as that.”

The major wasn’t very satisfied with Carter’s matter-of-fact response but there was little he could say. He took over again.

“‘Simple’, yes. Simple to the experts, eh, Watson?”

The teenager gave a nervous smile. “But I haven’t been trained to blow up houses, sir. Don’t know the first thing about where to place the charge, what type of charge, how much charge...”

The major ignored him.

“At zero-one-hundred hours tonight we shall push off for the west bank in two of our small dinghies. At precisely zero-two-hundred hours we shall rendezvous under cover of the columns in the Ramesseum. At zero-two-fifteen hours Watson here will creep over to the building and place his charges. Horsell, Johnson, Smith and Davis will stay with him to keep a lookout and immobilise any intruders. Do y’ need a hand setting the charges, boy?”

“Sir?” Watson, contemplating his forthcoming challenge, had not been paying attention.

“Stay alert, boy. Do you need help setting the charges?”

“Someone... Someone to tell me where, sir, and how much,” was the trembling reply.

The major glared at the boy. “Trying to be funny, boy?”

“Someone to help play out the firing wires, sir.”

“Adamson. Your job.”

“Sah!” The sergeant stood to attention.

Carter was quietly beside himself with the theatrics.

“Right. Now comes the dangerous bit. Once the charges are laid and primed and the firing box is in position...”

“Where, sir?” It was that piping voice again.

“What, Watson?”

“Where do you want to place the firing box, sir?”

“Er...” He had to think. “How far is safe, Watson.”

“It depends on the charge, sir. And the enemy.”

“What d’you mean, ‘the enemy’?”

“Well... If they’re in the vicinity...”

“There’s no one in the vicinity, Watson. How far away do we have to be to be safe?”

“It depends on the size of the charge, sir.”

“You said that. Well...?”

“I won’t know what size of charge to place until I see the structure, sir.”

This could go on forever, thought Carter.

He broke in before the dialogue continued. “Major, we will need cover in any case, will we not, so why don’t we set the firing box in the Ramesseum? It is quite far enough from the villa providing you have enough firing wire, that is.”

“Good thinking, Carter. Ramesseum. Excellent cover. We set the bombs off from there.” The major looked well satisfied. “Good show. But we need to look beyond success. The escape. Hardest part of all, the escape. Often bungled. Many a successful mission lost its heroes due to a lack of escape planning.”

‘Oh, my God,’ thought Carter, rolling his eyes.

The major was in full flow. “Following the attack, Watson reels in the firing wire and we regroup at the east entrance to the Ramesseum.” He waited for indications of recognition from each in the circle. Satisfied he had their attention he continued. “It’s a longish walk to the boat, but it’s important we make it in as short a time as possible. Means we shall have to double-time it. While we’re in the boats everyone gets their face black off. Don’t want to turn up in Luxor looking like a bunch of darkies. Then, back to your bunks. Nothing ever happened. You know the drill. Any questions?”

A single hand was raised. It was Lieutenant Horsell.

“Sir. Permission to speak?”

“Go ahead, Horsell.”

“This black stuff, sir. I suffer fwom washes.”

“‘Washes?’”

“No, sir washes, sir. This stuff hurts my skin. May I wear something dark over my face instead a gas mask, for instance?”

“Very well. Very well. Now, men, synchronise watches! At the count of three it will be zero-nine-fifteen hours pwe... precisely one, two, three!”

Everyone but Carter, who was preoccupied with subduing his giggling, clicked their watches into action together.

“Remember now, we all stay within sight of one another until the raid is over. Watson, take us to the armoury.”

Carter tolerated the company of the soldiers all day and all evening. They played cards together most of the time, but only one of them played bridge. Unable to make a four, he soon became bored. It seemed an age before midnight finally came around. They began to ready themselves to go down to the river bank. They each took a dollop of boot black and rubbed it into their faces, oily with perspiration. All, that is, except for Horsell, who sat beside them with his gas mask on, quietly perspiring. He was visually oblivious to all that was going on around him. The glass apertures for his eyes had misted up.